The Patrician's Bargain
by lumixedia
Summary: Some say the Patrician loves his city; some say he loves only power. Some say the Patrician is loved by his city; some say he is merely tolerated for lack of an alternative. Now something dangerous is brewing in Ankh-Morpork, something that threatens to destroy it utterly. At what price is Lord Vetinari willing to save his city? At what price is anyone else willing to save him?
1. Omens

There used to be monsters in Uberwald...

(What? There are still monsters in Uberwald. Uberwald is nothing _but_ monsters.)

No, no, no, not _those_ monsters. Not the ones that are just people who fantasize about a warm mug of blood after a long day at work, or who have a little extra fur and then only sometimes. I mean the _real_ monsters, who were there first, and who were driven out when the people came. And it's true that it turned the people a little strange, living in that strange land. It's true that it turned some of them short and some of them stony and some of them...let's just say _modular_. But nothing alive on the Discworld today is a monster. This is very important.

(Then where did the monsters go?)

Elsewhere. Somewhere close, close, yet unreachable. But not for much longer. It is time for them to return.

(Why now?)

Because now the stars align. The descendants of the people who replaced them gather in a great city on a river, far away from Uberwald, and in that city there is someone willing and able to bring the monsters back. And they know, oh, they know. Soon, soon, they will have a new chance at revenge on those who exiled them. They will take their revenge in the great city on the river, so far from the home to which they can never return.

* * *

In a room somewhere in Ankh-Morpork-soon enough, it wouldn't matter where-a young man painted glowing symbols on the floor.

He would also have painted them on the walls, but there was no room. They were covered in clippings from newspapers and pamphlets. Some of these were mainstream, some radical, and some so detached from reality that they were actually trying to flee the Discworld for a universe in which they would feel more plausible, and would have faded out of this plane of existence if they hadn't been trapped by the young man's pins. The young man had powerful pins. When he stabbed a clipping to the wall with one, all the strength of his convictions went into it, and it held the clipping in a little bubble of warped reality that could not be escaped.

The clippings said things like INSIDE THE LEAGUE OF TEMPERANCE'S SECRET BLOOD-SMUGGLING OPERATION and REVEALED! THE HORRIFYING FATE OF LIMBS AMPUTATED BY IGORS and TROLL CRUSHES INNOCENT GIRL TO DEATH AFTER MISTAKING HER FOR DWARF, CLAIMS 'SELF-DEFENSE'. They targeted every group of non-humans in Ankh-Morpork indiscriminately and occasionally confused those groups with each other. They blithely contradicted each other on the level of facts, but there was no antagonism in it, because they were perfectly unified in spirit.

The young man kept painting. The fire in his mind flowed through his arm into his fingers, then his brush, then the paint, making it glow. The fire burned cracks in the wall between the universe and...somewhere else. In that somewhere else, things pushed against the weakened wall. _Soon, soon_, they whispered to the young man. Within a radius of several miles of the glowing symbols, the foundations of reality began to tremble.

* * *

"Sam," said Sybil worriedly, "there's something wrong with the dragons. They're too healthy."

Sam Vimes, who had already opened his mouth for a generic expression of interest and concern before the last three words threw him off, blinked in confusion. "Too...healthy?"

"Yes," she said matter-of-factly. "Come and see."

They went outside to the pen. It was true that the dragons seemed a bit off. A swamp dragon on a typical day-no, a _good_ day-is about as pleasant and attractive as a bundle of oily rags, presumably wrapped around some kind of explosive. But on this day, Sybil's dragons...well, they stood up straight, and their wings were clean, and their scales gleamed.

"They're strong," Sybil said. "They're energetic, cheerful, _comfortable_. This isn't normal."

"Maybe you've been doing a good job with them," Vimes suggested.

Sybil snorted. "Are you implying I wasn't before? No. Something strange is happening in the city. You're meeting Havelock later today, right? You need to tell him about this."

"I do?" Vimes blinked again. "I...I need to complain to the Patrician...that your dragons...aren't as ill as usual?"

"Yes, Sam. This is important."

* * *

"Hello, Commander," said Lord Vetinari. "How is the family?"

"Fine, sir. Same as always, sir."

"And Lady Sybil's dragons?"

Vimes briefly considered being surprised, but quickly decided not to bother. This was a twist anyone could have predicted. "She says they're too healthy. She seems worried, sir."

Vetinari nodded. "It seems there have been some...signs, lately. People have reported...all sorts of things. Flashes of light in the sky, strange groaning sounds underground, living organisms in the Ankh..."

Vimes startled. People were always reporting all sorts of things, but who would come up with something as absurd as-"What sorts of living organisms? And how could they tell?"

"I believe one of Sir Harold's employees netted one while attempting to recover a discarded but rather valuable chamber pot. From what I understand, it was quite a monstrosity. Too many eyes, mouths, and tentacles. The usual, you know."

"Oh," Vimes said, slightly relieved. "That doesn't seem _that_ out of order for the Ankh, then. I thought you meant a real fish."

"It could have been worse. Still, in combination with the rest of it...the Watch will have to investigate, Commander."

Vimes grimaced. "_We_ will have to investigate, sir? Isn't this more of a wizard thing? What do you expect _we'll_ be able to do about it?"

Vetinari waved his hand in a careless gesture. "Perhaps nothing. But then again, who knows what kind of thing it is? If it is a wizard thing, I do believe the Archchancellor is waiting outside to tell me. Do not let me detain you."

* * *

"It's Uberwald," Archchancellor Ridcully said. "The Old Monsters of Uberwald. There's no question."

"And the remedy?"

"I have no idea."

Lord Vetinari frowned. "And why not, exactly? Forgive me, but this seems squarely in your realm of expertise."

"My expertise is in the regions of the Dungeon Dimensions that threaten Ankh-Morpork today," Ridcully said defensively. "The Old Monsters are ancient history, and the ancient history of a different land no less. We know nothing about them but some legends that are so many thousands of years old I can't even tell you the order of magnitude. Why would any of us have studied them?"

"Well, apparently they _are_ threatening Ankh-Morpork today," Vetinari sighed, "but I understand."

"I recommend asking your..." Ridcully paused while trying to work out a way to say the word "friend" without quotation marks around it, but as the pause itself introduced quotation marks, he was trapped. "...'Friend', Lady Margolotta."

"That does seem like a natural step to take," Vetinari replied blandly, thankfully ignoring the quotation marks.

After dismissing Ridcully, Vetinari wandered over to the Thud board in the corner and contemplated it for a while. Then he had a clacks sent to Lady Margolotta. It said, "WILL YOU VISIT SOON STOP MISS YOU STOP F4-G5 STOP."

It was probably because of clacks like this leaking that the rumors had his and Margolotta's "friendship" in quotation marks. In actual fact, such messages between them were simply code for "THIS IS AN EMERGENCY". It was a very effective code, because obviously there were no other situations in which one might desire to express such affection.


	2. Monsters

Soon, Vimes had to admit that there really was something wrong with Sybil's dragons.

The problem was that they were growing. By the day, by the hour, they were growing. It was truly fortunate that Sybil's property was so large, or there would have been nowhere for them to go.

On second thought, that wasn't the real problem. The real problem was that they were _changing_. They were carrying themselves with a confidence that should have seemed ridiculous in a swamp dragon, but didn't. They were producing pure, hot, well-aimed flames, and never seemed to be in any danger of exploding.

They were flying higher, farther, and faster than ever with little apparent effort, in a way which, especially given their growing bodies, made no aerodynamic sense.

In short, they seemed to be gradually transforming into noble dragons.

The good news was that they still listened to Sybil. They were still, sort of, themselves. Vimes wondered if they should plan for the possibility that this might change, but decided it was no more worth planning for than the possibility that Vetinari might turn on him. One doesn't need to plan for the aftermath of swift and certain destruction.

* * *

Lord Vetinari and Lady Margolotta were working in a Corner of the Library. Vetinari had chosen this particular Corner because it was almost impossible for anyone but him to find. The documents kept here were ones that had once, many decades or centuries ago, been state secrets. Some had been placed here on purpose; some had been buried or burned, yet nevertheless made their way here to their compatriots. None of the documents contained information that any living person cared about keeping secret, but having once been sensitive enough to win wars and topple dynasties, they remained to this day distrustful and paranoid. They showed themselves only to Authority.

Furthermore, the Corner had a beautiful wooden table and very comfortable chairs. Vetinari himself had no opinions about chairs-after all, their only function was to bear weight, which was hardly a complex or delicate operation-but he knew that Margolotta did. Not that she was fussy about it; she simply appreciated a job well-done.

The table was piled with books that referenced the Old Monsters of Uberwald. Some had come from this Library, but the greater portion had arrived from Margolotta's own library via L-space.

"So the gate can be opened," Vetinari said.

"It is _slightly possible_ that the gate can be opened," Margolotta corrected, "under _remarkable circumstances_."

"I'm sure you agreed fifty seconds ago that we've eliminated all other possibilities. Several times over."

"I did."

The books in front of them said, in summary, this:

_When the Old Monsters ruled Uberwald, it was empty of life. They were swirling vortices of misery, pain, and destruction. They had begun as a single seed dropped from a single poisoned tree, but they multiplied and spread, and every year their territory grew. Every year the borders of Uberwald expanded, and the people who lived next to them had to flee or be poisoned. Finally, the people learned to fight back. They drove the Old Monsters into the Dungeon Dimensions, locked the door behind them, and threw away the key._

_The problem with throwing away the key is that it is possible that some time later, even thousands of years later, someone might find it. _

_The people who moved into the poisoned territory developed strange adaptations to it. Some learned to drink blood, for blood is life, and protects against the poison. Some learned to change into wolves, for wolves can smell the poison, and run away from its flow. All found themselves exploring and settling in the gray region between life and death. Their descendants are marked by these adaptations._

_How much must the Old Monsters thirst to find those descendants? How much must they lust to destroy their new home, as theirs was once destroyed? To fill the Discworld again with their lights, their groans, their magic, their tentacles..._

"I notice that these accounts are all...written by people," Vetinari murmured. "I wonder what the Old Monsters would say for themselves."

"Do you also vunder vhat the inhabitants of your own Dungeon Dimensions vould say for themselves?" Margolotta replied sharply.

"I certainly do," Vetinari said calmly. "I believe I know the answer to my satisfaction, but one can never be absolutely sure."

"Understood," Margolotta said, relaxing slightly. "Vell, you see that many of these accounts vere written by people in unaffected areas, who vere sick of the refugees from Uberwald and vould have preferred to downplay the problem and send them back. Many of them did indeed deny that the borders vere expanding, or that the Old Monsters vere truly so awful-but it became harder to deny over time. Some thinks aren't ambiguous. Some bad thinks are just bad thinks."

"True." Vetinari nodded slowly. "Yes. I agree that we must fight them." He took his cane and stood up. "But who could wish them back? I wonder if-"

* * *

"-Ankh-Morpork was built _of_ humans, _by_ humans, _for_ humans, and to humans it will return!"

Angua and Sally sat quietly in a middle row, watching the speaker with thoughtful (and carefully disguised) faces, politely nodding or clapping when everyone else did.

Of course, infiltrating the League of Defense Against Uberwald was not a pleasant assignment, but they had asked for it. Sally had experience as a spy; Angua just wanted to take action, because the alternative was being _saved_ by someone else. Anyway, they were better at blending in than most of the rest of the Watch.

They had not yet found any illegal behavior and were not quite sure what sort they were looking for. They had at some point picked up the rumor that the investigation was related to the lights in the sky and the tentacles in the river, but could not say from where.

The speaker finished; the audience got up and began to mingle around the table of refreshments. Angua and Sally managed to get themselves in a conversation with a regular they hadn't spoken to before, a young man who was shy at first but opened up after a few of Sally's patented bright, energetic smiles and nods.

"I have to say," he said quietly, as if a little embarrassed by his own rosy worldview, "I'm the moderate in this room. I still think this whole problem can be resolved in a win-win way. I mean, I just think the Uberwaldeans can't really, you know, do _well_ here, seeing how much they don't fit in. I think in the long run they'll understand that they don't really _want_ to be here, that they're better off at home."

"And the...ones who were born here and don't speak Uberwaldean, you think even they will...choose to leave?" Angua said carefully. They were here to investigate, so in particular they were definitely not _here_ to change hearts and minds, but still. She couldn't help but hope that...that if she only planted the right seed of doubt, the young man might not be beyond saving.

"They're still not human," the young man said. "If they only saw how much easier it is to be among your own kind...I don't know. Of course, Harby would call me ridiculous."

"Harby?" Sally asked.

"My friend, he used to be really involved with this group-for years. But he got a little extreme-like he'd say it's too late for Ankh-Morpork, nothing can fix the mess we've made, we should tear down the whole thing and start over. And now he's dropped off the face of the earth."

"That's certainly something," Angua said vaguely, her instincts flaring.

"Do you know what might've made him so pessimistic?" Sally asked.

"No idea. He had a really promising career, too. He was a student at Unseen for a while. But then he dropped out."

"A wizard!" Sally exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm-her instincts agreed with Angua's. "I've always wanted to meet a wizard! Could you introduce us?"

"I really couldn't," the young man said apologetically. "I've tried pretty hard to get in contact with him over the past year. I think I was his closest friend. Somewhere in the middle he replied to one of my letters, so I guess he sees them, and he isn't dead. But I don't think he lives at that address anymore, and all he said was 'leave me alone'."

After, Angua and Sally wandered the streets of Ankh-Morpork in the cool night air, trying to shake off the nausea that always came with monitoring the League's words. League meetings were like enormous soap bubbles. When you walked into them, the world outside became confused and distorted, and your eyes and ears went out of sync, and it made you seasick in the soul. Also you got covered in bubble film, which in this case was probably made of mouth foam.

"The one we talked to," Angua said, "do you think he can be saved?"

Sally shrugged helplessly. Above them, the clouds glowed a dark, sick yellow, as they had for days.


	3. Keys

Moist had naively thought that his meeting with Vetinari was going pretty well. They had had a completely reasonable discussion about the progress of the new underground train. There were always problems, of course-every day more workers reported illnesses that had somehow been triggered by mysterious groaning noises-but they were basically under control. Vetinari hadn't made any oblique references to gallows or spiky pits whatsoever.

Then, very suddenly, it all went off the rails.

(As they liked to say these days, although Moist considered it important to point out that _his_ trains had never done any such thing.)

"It is possible," Vetinari said, "that I have delayed long enough in appointing you a lord."

All the alarm bells went off in Moist's head. "I don't understand. What have I done wrong?"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Nothing at all. I simply imagine you will eventually have use for the title."

"Well, I don't imagine any such thing," Moist said stubbornly.

"Perhaps your imagination is limited because you have so far only taken on tasks that nobody else wants, whose power nobody else understands. But suppose there is a job opening whose value is more...obvious. A position whose occupant is a matter of life or death. Then you will need supporters, or at least grudging non-opponents. And your title will change how you are perceived by those who might grudgingly fail to oppose you...consciously or otherwise."

Moist stared at Vetinari in horror. This was so _wrong_. There was danger underneath Vetinari's words, but not, somehow, the kind of danger that Moist actually liked. Not the kind that made him feel like he belonged in the world, like the fates were all in working order. No, this was the kind of danger that crawled out of a dark pit and desperately needed to be chased back as quickly as possible.

In a couple of decades, perhaps, it would be an acceptable time to have this conversation. Now? Moist wouldn't stand for it. "I'm sure there is no such job opening and I can't think where one might come from," he snapped.

"One must prepare for all eventualities," Vetinari replied calmly. "Fortunately, should such an opening appear, I have great confidence in your ability to fill it. Especially with the help of Mr. Drumknott."

Both Moist and Vetinari glanced to Vetinari's side, where Drumknott had been standing quietly, taking notes on the underground train on his clipboard. Moist had never before seen Drumknott show any expression on his face whatsoever, but now he looked as unpleasant as Moist felt, and he was making no effort to hide it.

"I have no ambitions of working with Mr. von Lipwig, my lord," he said coldly. Moist was surprised and impressed at the openness of the ire Drumknott was suddenly directing at his employer. Perhaps in another context he would have found the man's words insulting, but in this one, he was just relieved to have an ally.

"Why, because of the pencils?" Vetinari said, taking no notice of Drumknott's tone. "I'm sure the two of you will reach an agreement on that someday. Perhaps it will help when Mr. von Lipwig becomes responsible for replacing your pencils himself."

"_Not_ because of the pencils, my lord." The pitch of Drumknott's voice had gone up a note or two. "I _like_ purchasing new pencils."

"Perfect!" Vetinari said cheerfully. "Then you will get along with each other very well indeed." He took something from a drawer-a key-and handed it to Drumknott, who glared down at it for a while before taking it with bad grace. "Mr. Drumknott, would you take Mr. von Lipwig on a tour of the palace? The extended tour, I mean, the parts that might be important in an emergency. You may start there." He waved at a seemingly arbitrary section of a side wall.

Drumknott turned his glare to Moist, who made his best this-is-not-my-fault-and-I-don't-like-it-any-better-than-you-do face. Then he gritted his teeth, marched to the place Vetinari had indicated, and pressed a spot on the wall. It swung back with a rattling sound. "Come _on_, then," he snapped at the still-seated Moist, who, helplessly, did.

* * *

Touch this panel. Skip this stone. Go left for the old secrets, right for the new ones. Straight ahead for...well, nothing there can really be described as "important in an emergency", so never mind.

Rooms with objects. Rooms with people. Rooms with filing cabinets.

Moist dutifully memorized Drumknott's instructions. As much as he was trying not to think about the possibility of an "emergency", he had still gotten far enough to be terrified of disappointing Lord Vetinari's shade if one hypothetically occurred.

In one of the rooms with filing cabinets, Drumknott opened a drawer, pulled out a nondescript brown folder, and made a jerking motion at Moist with it. "Summary of instructions in the event of succession. People to meet. Things to say. Secret prisoners to feed. He updates it all the time, so there's no point reading it now." He shoved the folder back into place and slammed the drawer shut.

Moist nodded weakly. "Why...why me, anyway?"

Drumknott seemed to suddenly realize that he'd been snapping at the wrong person. He sighed. "Why not? You're perfect for it. I hope I didn't imply otherwise. I didn't mean-if I insulted-I'd just rather he stuck around forever, that's all."

"So would I."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's all him. Why he would-he's _never_ unnecessarily cruel, you know. _Never_. So why he would bring this up without warning and then pretend not to understand why it might be painful-and frightening-and why he'd send us on this little tour without coming with us, as if we need to get to know each other _right now_, as if maybe _any day_-but with no explanation-I don't understand it."

"Right." Of course, Ankh-Morpork _had_ experienced a lot of omens lately. Perhaps Vetinari foresaw danger in them. But the omens weren't so far above background level in the strange city that anyone else was terribly panicked about them, and anyway, what would that have to do with succession? Vetinari was a survivor. As long as there was any city left to lead, he would live to lead it. Moist was sure of that.

So why torment Drumknott and Moist with paranoid preparations for his death?

"Maybe he isn't pretending," Moist said. "Maybe he actually doesn't realize that he's scaring us."

Drumknott sighed. "Yes, it's just the sort of thing he'd miss, isn't it?"

* * *

"Harbinger Everwane." Archcancellor Ridcully tapped the student records in front of him. "Entered the University five years ago. Reasonably talented. Stopped showing up about a year ago. That's him. And..." he looked at Vimes, frowning. "He _did_ have a great fascination with the Old Monsters. I remember that. I don't remember him saying why. You think he might be responsible for the omens?"

"He was heavily involved in the League of Defense Against Uberwald, it seems," Vimes said.

"Is that-"

"They want to remove non-humans from Ankh-Morpork. It's exactly what it sounds like."

"Oh. Oh, no, that's not good. Huh." Ridcully looked back down at the records, his mouth working. "Oh, dear."

"Could he have learned here how to bring the Old Monsters back? Summon them to Ankh-Morpork so they can terrorize the children of Uberwald?"

Ridcully continued staring at the records, as if hoping they might reveal that this was all a terrible mistake. "Well, no, that would be ridiculous. On multiple levels."

"And those are?"

"Where to even start?" Ridcully rubbed his eyes. "Look. You can't bring the Old Monsters back. I assume the omens are appearing because some fluctuation in the Dungeon Dimensions is drawing them closer than usual, but that doesn't mean they can _come back_. I know Vetinari and Lady Margolotta think they have an idea for how it might happen, but they themselves acknowledge it's nearly impossible. What they think is, for one thing, there might be a metaphorical door with a metaphorical key, and the key might occasionally come into phase with our world at completely random times and places, and if someone who knew to look for it-like Harbinger, I suppose-just happened to be there, he could grab it. But it would be like him winning several lotteries."

"They say the key could've been appearing for tens of thousands of years." Vimes said. "The way I see it, if you run enough lotteries, eventually _someone_ will win several of them." (And if you keep going, many people will win several of them. If you keep going, eventually, one of those people will be someone like Harbinger Everwane...)

"Fine. But that's only the beginning. Our metaphorical door _also_ has a metaphorical combination lock, and metaphorical booby traps, and I could go on. Anyway, if he opened it, he would certainly die."

"He could be willing."

"_Furthermore,_ it wouldn't just be him. This League of Defense whatever, they want humans to rule Ankh-Morpork, right? They think humans are the master species? Let me tell you what would happen if the Old Monsters returned to Ankh-Morpork, which, again, they can't. What would happen is the city would be leveled. Everything within a radius of miles would die horribly, human or not. There wouldn't be much of the master species left to rule, or much for them to rule either."

"According to my officers, Everwane's been heard saying that it's too late for Ankh-Morpork and it should be torn down and started over."

"Oh, goodness." Ridcully groaned and rubbed his eyes some more. "Anyway, he can't do it. It can't be done."

But if you run enough lotteries...


	4. Lords

Vimes, to his perpetual disappointment, was at yet another party. Furthermore, he had somehow gotten trapped in a conversation circle with Sybil, Lord Vetinari, and Lord Downey, which was the sort of thing he really ought to have learned how to prevent by now.

On the bright side, at least it was amusing to watch Downey needle Vetinari over the fact that the party was happening. Its ostensible purpose was to celebrate Moist von Lipwig becoming Lord Moist von Lipwig, but everyone knew that Lord wasn't the only title Vetinari had given von Lipwig that day, even if it was the only one he'd said out loud in the ceremony.

"Making it official, hmm?" Downey said, making a gesture with his wine glass which implied that if he had been less refined, he would be poking Vetinari in the shoulder with it.

"Making what official?" Vetinari replied mildly.

"Your retirement planning, I mean." Downey drank from his glass. "So, what's it going to be? Cottage in the countryside? Keep some bees, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid I do not understand. What would I do with a cottage in the countryside, or with bees?"

Downey shrugged. "They say the voluntarily retired enjoy such things. I'm sure _I_ have no idea, though. I do not generally interact with the voluntarily retired in my line of work."

"Indeed. It is rather a compliment that you expect me to become one of them." Vetinari contemplated his own wine glass, which he had not drunk from at all. "However, any retirement plans I have are far from imminent."

"That's really too bad," Downey said cheerfully. "Lord von Lipwig seems like a reasonable young man. I was hoping he would waste less breath threatening to hike Assassins' Guild tax rates."

Vetinari raised an amused eyebrow. "I fear you will be disappointed. He may be reasonable, but he _certainly_ likes money."

"Ah, well. Change is a beautiful thing regardless. At the very least, he'll bring a little more color to the palace." Downey nodded at the flash of the golden suit across the room. "And what do you think of him, Commander?"

"He does seem reasonable," Vimes agreed, carefully keeping his eyes on Downey's, addressing him alone. "Pleasant. Easygoing. Bright personality. Straightforward, at least if he respects you. Doesn't overwork his subordinates. Qualities I like in a leader."

He could feel Sybil telepathically stepping on his foot, though she refrained from doing so in real life. "The young man has a bright future ahead of him," she cut in, "but he doesn't look nearly ready for it yet, poor thing." The group looked again toward the flash of gold in the crowd, illuminating the pale, anxious face above it.

"Ah, but the more important question is, are _we_ ready?" Downey made the poking gesture with his glass at Vetinari again. "_I_ certainly am." Sybil glared at him. He ignored her.

"Of course you are," Vetinari said blandly. "You always have been, I'm sure. Ah, I must greet Lady Anselane."

He wandered away. But before Vimes could take the opportunity to escape, the cursed gravity of the conversation circle captured von Lipwig himself in Vetinari's place.

"A-_ha_!" Downey exclaimed. "The man of the moment! So tell us, how does it feel to be in your very special new position?"

"It's hardly special in this company," von Lipwig said, too defensively. "You're all lords and ladies."

"Ah, but only you have a golden suit." Downey leaned forward, his eyes narrowing a little. "An important qualification, isn't it? Really prepares you to step in his shoes, doesn't it?"

"Come on," von Lipwig protested. "None of this is my fault, okay?"

"Excellent attitude," Vimes said. "Really demonstrates the sense of responsibility a head of government needs."

"What is _wrong_ with the two of you today?" Sybil muttered under her breath.

What was wrong with Vimes, of course, was that if he was going to be stuck at this party, he was damn well going to drag his conversation partners down with him. Especially if they were current or future Patricians, who could damn well take it. What was wrong with Downey, Vimes couldn't say. Perhaps he was in a bad mood because he didn't enjoy confronting change as much as he pretended to. Or was that projection?

"You listen now," Downey said to von Lipwig, making the poking gesture with his wine glass yet again. "Don't go thinking you can ever escape his shadow. None of us can. Count yourself successful if you manage not to get lost inside it. Keep that in mind when you start getting puffed up, understand?"

"Maybe you should go tell _him_ that!" von Lipwig snapped.

"_Indeed_," Sybil said.

Downey laughed. "Don't you worry. He certainly knows."

* * *

Lord Vetinari and Lady Margolotta were in their Corner of the Library again. They were there quite a lot, these days.

"So," said Vetinari, "what did you think of, hmm, _Lord_ von Lipwig?"

They had just returned from the reception in honor of, hmm, _Lord_ von Lipwig. Margolotta looked at Vetinari, her eyes narrowed. After a long pause, she said, coolly, "I like him."

(That was true. He had certainly made an impression. For one thing, unlike most people she met for the first time, he had taken one look at the little middle-aged lady in the pink sweater and immediately decided she was a threat. He had tensed, asked stiffly for an introduction, and nodded without surprise when he heard her name.

He had made an excellent choice of wife, too. Margolotta and Lady Dearheart had found each other fascinating and had talked for most of the reception. Yes, von Lipwig would do, when the time came. But the time had not come yet. Which made Havelock's sudden seeming haste...eyebrow-raising.)

After another pause, Margolotta asked, "Have you spoken vith him about your plans for him?"

Vetinari twitched a corner of his mouth in amusement. "Yes, though it was not as productive a conversation as one might have hoped. Both he and Mr. Drumknott resisted the line of discussion."

"They find it painful to imagine you gone, I suppose?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that," Vetinari said, making a dismissive motion with his hand. "I have taken sufficient precautions against being liked."

"Indeed," Margolotta said neutrally.

"Being liked is dangerous," Vetinari said. "Those who like you tend to nurse expectations of you, and are liable to be disappointed and angered. On the other hand, those who merely tolerate you will simply continue to tolerate you, as nothing you do particularly moves or surprises them. I much prefer to be merely tolerated. Fortunately, I am not likable in the first place, so it has been no great challenge to make sure of it."

Margolotta made a non-committal sound.

"Lord von Lipwig simply fears responsibility, and even more does Mr. Drumknott fear change. That is all."

"It _is_ rather early for succession plannink," Margolotta said carefully.

"I entirely disagree. It is quite overdue. One must prepare for all eventualities."

"It seems to me that you have become convinced of this quite suddenly." Margolotta sat up, her eyes boring into his. "Are you perhaps thinkink that a captain must go down with his ship?"

"Of course not," Vetinari said, making another dismissive motion. "A captain must save as many as he can, but all else being equal, why shouldn't one of those many be himself?" He picked up a book. "In any case, I suggest we concentrate on not hitting the iceberg."


	5. Symbols

Vimes, Carrot, Angua, and Sally surrounded a gray little house slumped in an undistinguished bit of the city. Vimes and Carrot approached the front door, on which Vimes knocked sharply.

He paused, waited for the expected lack of answer, knocked again. "This is the Watch! Open up!" he shouted. He paused again-wait, knock, shout-and finally kicked the door in.

Inside, the floor-

_Let's back up,_ said the observation module in Vimes's brain. _Let's take notes on the easy parts first. _Then_ we'll tackle the floor._

Easy part #1: kneeling on the aforementioned floor, an ordinary young man, who had looked up at Vimes and Carrot when the door was kicked in and now wore an expression of moderate irritation. There was a paintbrush in his hand.

Easy part #2: the walls, which were, as we discussed at the very beginning of this story, covered in newspaper and pamphlet clippings.

Easy part #3: none. Ugh, fine, back to the floor.

The floor was-

None of this is going to be completely accurate, but we have to start somewhere. Let's say the floor was covered with colorful glowing symbols, the most recent one ending where the young man's paintbrush began. Only it wasn't exactly the floor that was covered with them, because beneath the symbols were other symbols. Also, it wasn't exactly that those symbols were covered, because actually they were perfectly visible, as were the ones below them and the ones below them, all the way down through an infinite black abyss. Also, it wasn't exactly that either, but forget it-this is good enough for practical purposes.

Here, "practical purposes" meant Vimes shouting, "Harbinger Everwane! You're under arrest!" and trying to step forward only for the air inside the room to push him back, gently but firmly, like the surface of an invisible balloon. No matter how he moved, he couldn't pass the threshold.

The young man, Everwane, sighed and rolled his eyes. "You know, I'd hoped I'd be able to finish the job in peace, but I knew it wasn't likely. Fortunately, it doesn't really matter. The blast radius will be a little smaller. A few more people will live. But it's all the same in the long run."

He stood up, and the floor-

Ugh, not this again. Okay, let's say the floor stood up with him. Let's say the symbols rose into the air and resized and rearranged themselves and surrounded him, so that he became a dim figure inside a great glowing ball. And the great glowing ball rose further, breaking through the roof, into the sky, and began to float away.

Vimes, Carrot, Angua, and Sally ran after it. Their feet pounded on the cobblestones, struggling to approximate the glowing ball's straight trajectory to the center of the city through Ankh-Morpork's wriggling mass of small alleys.

(You might wonder whether this was the strangest thing Vimes had ever chased on behalf of the Watch. The answer is "probably, but not by very much". After all, there had been that time-no, better not get distracted.)

Eventually, they followed the glowing ball to the Plaza of Broken Moons, where it stopped, descending to ground level. People got out of its way, partly because they couldn't shove it around and partly because Carrot cleared them away. They did not panic. They'd gotten used to Signs and Omens by now, and this wasn't even a big one.

Vimes saw that Vetinari was walking towards them, Drumknott to his side.

"Sir," he said.

Vetinari stopped beside him and looked intently at the ball. He seemed to be memorizing the floating symbols. Carrot, Angua, and Sally came toward them, instinctively gathering around Vetinari, waiting to see what he had to say.

Eventually Vetinari spoke, not to Vimes or the others, but to the dim figure behind the symbols. "What was the name of the key?" he asked.

The silhouette of Everwane turned toward him. Echoey laughter issued from it. "As helpless as you are, you might as well know...it's Prosendithorica! What do you think of that?"

"I see." Another silence. Then he turned to the Watch members and said, in the same perfectly neutral tone as always, "We must evacuate a two-mile radius of this point in the next three hours. Everyone left will die."

Somehow, Vimes had not been ready for that. Somehow, he had been so sure that they would solve the problem, like they always had. That they would miss the iceberg.

"We can't," he said. "The walls-"

"I know," Vetinari said. "How many would you say we can save?"

"A third, at most. Maybe half, if all the gods descend with their blessings."

"Hmm. I concur with those numbers." Vetinari glanced again at the ball of glowing symbols. "Mr. Drumknott, come aside with me for a moment. Commander, the evacuation is in your hands."

* * *

"Right," Vimes said.

Carrot, Angua, and Sally stared blankly at him.

He did not take a deep breath. He took a perfectly average-length breath, and another, and another. He understood that like the floor in Everwane's house, the deaths and suffering Ankh-Morpork was about to face would defy any attempt by his mind to process them. The only solution was not to try. For now, they were numbers in an academic exercise, and he was organizing a drill.

"This is what we're going to do," he said.

* * *

Drumknott carefully wrote down each task Vetinari listed for him on his clipboard. There were not very many, really. Normally, he would simply have memorized them. But in an emergency it was better to be certain.

"And what," he asked, when Vetinari was done, "will you do, my lord?"

"Speak to Everwane a little longer, perhaps. Then I may need to consult the Library."

"And then?"

"You need not concern yourself with that, Mr. Drumknott. Let us rejoin the others."

* * *

The Watch members silently reabsorbed Vetinari and Drumknott into their huddle. Vetinari's eyes swept slowly through the people before him, meeting each of theirs in turn. "You know what you have to do, and I have great confidence that you will do it well. I only ask one thing: in case you are tempted to go down with the Ankh-Morpork ship, do not-that is an order. Those you will save will need you."

"And you too, _right_, my lord?" Drumknott couldn't resist shooting back.

"Of course," Vetinari said. He actually smiled a little. Not a happy smile, of course, but perhaps a kind one. "You have all been a great help. Thank you, good luck, and farewell." He turned his back on them and walked away, toward Everwane in the glowing ball.

They scattered toward their respective tasks, but not before each of them shot one more troubled glance at Vetinari, back in conversation with the madman who had opened the abyss. Somehow they sensed that Vetinari had been thanking them not for their help with the evacuation, but their help with running the city for the past many years; that he had been wishing them good luck not for carrying out the evacuation, but for the rest of their lives; and that he had been saying farewell not for the duration of the evacuation, but for something far more permanent.


	6. Plans

Vimes went home first. There was a good reason for this. He carefully did not think about what he would have done if there had been no good reason.

He also continued to carefully not think about the horror of the situation as a whole. He delivered the news to Sybil as if he were informing her about the weather. He watched her blink slowly, gently (_she does everything gently_, he thought with sharp affection), several times, then nod and receive the information as if she had been informed about the weather.

"The dragons can carry around four hundred pounds at a time," she said. "With loading and unloading, takeoff and landing, the trip from here should be a little less than half an hour, one way. So we may still have time for three trips if we're fast. Thirty-four are here now, our eighteen and sixteen from Sunshine. Sunshine had around two hundred and thirty but we ran out of space when they transformed so they're scattered all over now. Many are outside the city. They'll be hard to mobilize."

"We've sent a messenger to Sunshine," Vimes said. "Focus on loading the ones here."

Sybil nodded. "Then I'll check on them after the ones here are gone."

Vimes hugged her. "Remember-" he stopped, briefly paralyzed by the horrible vision of Sybil ignoring what he was about to say. "Remember to get on one yourself," he finally managed.

"Yes, of course, on the last trip," she said in her most reassuring tone, and kissed him. "See you in the safe zone."

Letting go of her felt like a crime greater than any he had stopped. And yet he did.

Sybil did not watch him walk away. She was already turning to the servant bells and ringing every one, already running to Young Sam's room, already packing him onto the first dragon...

* * *

Drumknott had some messages sent, then returned to the palace.

The palace had two hundred and twelve rooms and employed around four hundred people at any given point in time. The palace additionally had dozens of day visitors and temporary residents; Mr Fusspot; a variety of other important animals, plants, and minerals; documents whose loss would mean the subsequent loss of multiple lives; and the occasional secret prisoner. Drumknott's task was to remove every single one of these to the safe zone in the time he had left.

Technically, that wasn't the task Vetinari had given him. Vetinari had said _evacuate whom you can, take what you can, then go_. Vetinari had said _don't go down with the ship_. But Vetinari wasn't there, and to Drumknott, making a list and _not finishing it_ was a fate worse than death.

He sounded the alarms, grabbed his records, stood to the side, and began checking off names as people left the building.

* * *

One of Drumknott's messages went to Moist and Adora Belle's house.

"O-kay," Moist said weakly. It was _that_ kind of danger again, the kind that wasn't even slightly thrilling.

"Just hurry up and change," Adora Belle snapped.

He did. (Due to his habit of being almost late for important meetings, he was used to putting on his golden suit at a sprint.)

Adora Belle flung open the door as he finished, and swore. The streets were already full of shouting, shoving people, carriages, animals, and debris. Ankh-Morporkians were slow to panic, but once they finally did, they were really quite good at it.

"We can't go this way," she said. "We'll never get to the golems in time."

"Roofs, then."

"All the way from here to the golems? Is that possible?"

"I don't know."

Adora Belle shot another glance at the crowd. "Roofs it is. Lead the way."

"Lead?" Moist tried to joke. "You've never said _that_ to me before."

"Shut up and let's _go_."

He did.

* * *

Lady Margolotta was at a Black Ribboners meeting when she got the clacks.

It said: MR NUTT SERIOUSLY ILL STOP FEAR THE WORST STOP RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP GLENDA STOP.

As it happened, on this particular trip Margolotta had not brought Miss Healstether, or much of anything else either. All of her items were in a bag with her. It was the work of a moment to grab the bag, make excuses, run outside (to a back location where witnesses were unlikely), and rise into the sky.

She had been flying in the direction of Uberwald in a panic for about half an hour when something about the city she was flying above finally _pinged_ on her awareness. She looked down. She was high up enough that it wasn't clear what was going on in the streets, but-something seemed wrong-

She hesitated, made a decision, descended on a roof.

Well, look at that. Something was more than wrong. Something was a full-blown evacuation of the city, a couple of people screaming through loudspeakers and everyone else just screaming, and Havelock had evidently wanted her out of the way, and due to a combination of her Black Ribboners meeting location, the evacuation strategy Vimes had chosen, and special Drumknott magic, she had received his fake clacks about Nutt several minutes before the evacuation alert reached her area.

She turned around in a towering fury, preparing to take off again, this time in the direction of the palace.

"Forgive me, Lady Margolotta."

Because of course Havelock would also send a team of assassins with tranquilizer darts to follow her and surround her if she ever turned back.

It was Downey who had asked for her forgiveness. He stepped forward slightly, looking embarrassed, tranquilizer-dart-shooter still raised. "Please come quietly, Lady Margolotta."

"I don't understand," she said. She was still very, very angry. "If Havelock didn't vant me to help him fight the Old Monsters, he didn't have to invite me here in the first place."

"I don't know what Havelock wants," Downey said helplessly. "I don't even know where he is. I just know he expects me to keep you safe. _Please_ come quietly."

She had no choice. Not that she couldn't have taken out Downey and his ten mediocre students. Of course she could have. But then how was she to haul eleven unconscious bodies to the safe zone in the next two-and-a-half hours? No, she had to go quietly. Then at least Downey and company would be safe, even if Havelock-

Blinding fury coursed through her again. She watched Downey quail at the expression on her face. "I-vill-come-quietly," she said through gritted teeth. "You-two-vill-pay-later."


	7. Delays

Loading the first few dragons was easy: all Sybil had to do was empty out the Vimes-Ramkin household, except for herself and Willikins, who insisted on remaining behind to help her. But once Young Sam and all the other household staff had taken off (as Sybil forced herself to turn away instead of wasting time watching the dragons shrink into the dark yellow, swirling sky)...then what?

The streets were full of people. This close to the epicenter, if they stayed there, following the masses, they would never make it to the safe zone in time. The distance was not the problem. The problem was the walls of other people that would soon be waiting for them, created by the high, impenetrable walls of the city itself, and the bottlenecks at their gates.

If anyone here survived, it would be because they had a shortcut. Because they were incredibly powerful and agile, and could spend hours climbing over roofs. Because they happened to know their way around the maze of tunnels under the city, or were being led by someone who did. Because they could fly, or they were tiny and could leap from head to head over the crowd, or they were insubstantial and could float through it.

Or because Sybil put them on a dragon.

With every dragon she sent flying, she was choosing who lived and who died. And to hesitate was to choose death for everyone.

Sybil did not hesitate. She picked out people from the street, the young, the old, the weak, the none-of-those-but-in-this-trouser-leg-of-time-they-happened-to-be-in-her-line-of-sight-at-the-right-moment. Willikins extracted them and escorted them into the grounds. As people began to understand what was happening, they started clustering around the Vimes-Ramkin house to fight, to plead, to scream. Sybil was grateful for Willikins's presence as a shield. Far too soon, every dragon was gone.

Sybil sent an imp to inquire about the Sunshine Sanctuary's progress on deploying the rest of the city's dragons. Then she sat with Willikins in their now-empty house and waited for the first dragon to return.

She thought about Young Sam, parentless in the safe zone. But the household staff would take excellent care of him; she knew that.

And Old Sam would arrive in the safe zone soon. He had said so.

So had she.

* * *

Drumknott checked off names.

The palace had enough denizens who understood the tunnels, or at least got along with the mice who understood the tunnels, that nobody who left it would have trouble reaching the safe zone. He just had to make sure that everyone did indeed leave.

But before long, new faces had stopped appearing in response to the alarm bells. Fortunately, by this time, Drumknott had seen subordinates escort out all the secret prisoners. It would have been a disaster if he'd had to do it himself; he couldn't have left them alone, he would have had to abandon the palace to lead them, and the checkmarks on the list would have remained horrifyingly incomplete, forever.

Unfortunately, the fact remained that the checkmarks _were_ currently horrifyingly incomplete. This was no surprise. The list was imperfect, the alarm bells more so, and the only way to be _sure_ that the palace was empty was to inspect all two hundred and twelve rooms, one by one.

To clarify, when we said two hundred and twelve, we did not mean to include closets, or passageways, or hidden corners, or the grounds.

Drumknott carefully put away the first list, took out blueprints of the palace, and began checking off rooms.

* * *

Between the eleven city gates where the Watch had positioned themselves to direct traffic, Vimes had chosen for himself the gate closest to the location where Sybil's dragons would land.

A Watch imp found him at the gate and assured him that Young Sam had already reached the safe zone. On the other hand, there was no sign of Sybil. This was expected; of course she would insist on staying behind until the last dragon left. It was, nevertheless, terrifying.

Occasionally, people stopped to argue with him about-about-oh, never mind, we all know there doesn't need to be an "about".

"This is a conspiracy," they said.

"The dwarves arranged this to take out the trolls," they said.

"No, it's all Vetinari. It's always Vetinari. He made this happen."

"I always said Om would smite us for abandoning-"

"-All the chemicals they put in our pineapples these days-"

"It's definitely Vetinari. Where is he, anyway?"

"I heard he's hiding in the Unseen Library. I heard there's a safe spot there that he doesn't want anyone to know about. All of the magic, you know, the wizards, and everything."

"Yeah, and he's going to run away after. Who wants to rule a ruined city? He'll disappear off to the other side of the Disc and leave us to clean up the mess."

"Let's storm the Library!"

Vimes did his best to explain that regardless of who arranged the arrival of the Old Monsters to take out whom, or where Vetinari was hiding, everyone was still better off going through the gate and into the safe zone instead of shouting at him.

"You're in on it," they said.

"Vetinari's terrier."

"Of course _you_ would parrot his line."

"If you trust him, we don't trust you."

But of course I don't trust him, Vimes would have said, if he'd had time to go into it. Do terriers know the mind of their owner? Do terriers understand them? Don't terriers cry and whine when their owner leaves the house, fearing every time that this is the time they won't return? Aren't terriers put down by their owner in the end, executed by syringe, for important reasons that could never be explained to them in words they could comprehend? Just because I follow him, belong to him, doesn't mean I trust him. It just means I have no other choice. And neither do you.

* * *

Moist cursed, again and again, at how far the burial location they'd chosen for the golems happened to be from the city center. By the time they reached them, there was hardly more than an hour left.

Fortunately, carried by one of the golems, their trip back to the city walls was much faster. Moist and Adora Belle had decided that trying to tear down part of the wall to relieve the bottlenecks at the gates wasn't worth it; even the golems couldn't work fast enough to clear the way in time. Instead, they would simply carry people over the walls. With proper organization, they could add tens of thousands of people to the survival count.

They had hardly gotten the system working when they were accosted by a vaguely familiar face which, Moist eventually worked out while the face was babbling at Adora Belle, belonged to a servant in the household of a rather unpleasant lord.

It took a little longer to work out what, precisely, the face was babbling, as its owner was evidently distressed and tripping over every syllable. Since a faithful transcription of his words would be overlong and quite nonsensical without an enormous amount of uninteresting context that Moist and Adora Belle happened to already have, we will cut it out and replace it with an actual explanation, as follows: "Lady Adora Belle, my employer has a stockpile of two hundred illegal golems which he keeps secret so that his treatment of them does not come under scrutiny. I have spent many months thinking about coming to you for help, but have not had the courage. But now he has left most of them behind in the city, with the result that they will not only be destroyed by the Old Monsters themselves, but also unable to contribute to saving more people at the wall. I felt incredibly guilty and ashamed and had to speak up."

"I see," Adora Belle finally said.

"We don't have much time," Moist pointed out.

"We have enough. We know where he lives."

"Barely enough." Again the wrong kind of danger, so wrong, all wrong. "Spike, we don't both have to go."

"Of course not. I'm going. You take care of the ones here."

"_No!_ No, that's exactly _not_ what I meant! _Wait!_" But Adora Belle was already striding back towards the walls. Moist had no choice but to run after her.

* * *

Margolotta, Downey, and Downey's students stopped in the middle of a small orchard which had temporarily sprouted numerous other huddles of evacuees, spread among the trees like flare-ups of weeds.

"Ve are definitely in the safe zone now?" Margolotta asked.

"Yes," Downey said. "Havelock said to come here-"

Margolotta attacked.

It was not instantaneous, subduing everyone. It took precious, precious time, and she clenched her fists in frustration as it ticked away. By the time she had knocked out all eleven assassins and carefully tied them to trees, it seemed unlikely that she would be able to go back, help and/or kill Havelock, and get out again before the Old Monsters came.

She went back anyway.


	8. Fates

Somehow, it was only after they had finished loading the very last flight of dragons-no more were coming, and there would be no time for another return trip-that Willikins realized that Sybil was still on the ground. As she had, of course, planned all along.

He gestured wildly from the top of his dragon, trying to pause the takeoff. "Ma'am!" he shrieked. "No! No, we can't leave yet-_ma'am_!"

"More can go without me, Willikins," Sybil said calmly. "I won't take someone else's place."

"That's true for all of us! _Stop! Please!_"

"The dragons listen to me, Willikins," Sybil said, still deadly calm, and whistled.

The dragons leapt into the sky. Willikins screamed.

* * *

Drumknott finished his list and stepped out through the palace doors, peering up at the darkening sky.

At this point, he thought in resignation, the only way he'd escape the Old Monsters was if an airship suddenly appeared and picked him up.

Too bad airships didn't exist. They were purely hypothetical objects that Lord von Lipwig had gone off about once. Oh, or had Leonard of Quirm taken an interest in them too? Not reliable sources, either one.

Really, he might as well go back to the Plaza of Broken Moons and be at the center of things when they happened. Especially since-Lord Vetinari might still be there-

* * *

As he stood on the city wall, occasionally shouting into a loudspeaker or dodging a golem, Vimes counted dragons. That was how he knew when the last one approached.

He waved wildly at it, jumping up and down. Miraculously, it saw him and descended-revealing a distraught Willikins, but no Sybil.

The world glitched.

"She said more could go without her!" Willikins wailed. "The dragons-listen to her-"

Vimes, who had frozen mid-wave, stirred.

"But sir, there's no time to go back-think of Young Sam-"

Vimes never heard him. He had already grabbed hold of a golem descending the city side of the wall.

"No! No! No!" Willikins pounded the dragon's back in impotent fury as it ascended again.

* * *

_Almost there_, Moist thought, and that was when the sky cracked.

Yellow clouds descended, spinning, from the crack. They spun tighter and lower and followed Moist and Adora Belle as they tried to move away.

"How _dare_-" Adora Belle shrieked.

The clouds caught them, lifted them, and carried them, screaming, toward the city center.

* * *

Downey woke up almost as soon as Margolotta left. He spent the first minute swearing.

He had had _one job_!

There was absolutely no person or thing that Downey feared more than Havelock Vetinari. This remained true even though at this point it was clear that Havelock would never _do_ anything to him. He was a load-bearing stone in the city's stable power equilibrium, and the Patrician showed no desire to kick him to see if he wobbled. Actually, Downey occasionally had the strange suspicion that Havelock might even _like_ him as a _person_, though he couldn't imagine why.

But none of this was to the point. The point was that the idea of letting Havelock Vetinari down was too terrifying to contemplate. It was far worse than the Old Monsters. Also, Downey was very good at getting out of ropes.

He went after her.

It didn't occur to him until later that by sending him to escort Margolotta to the safe zone, Havelock might have been trying to save him as well as her. Well, too bad.

* * *

Margolotta stopped in the Plaza of Broken Moons. She stared at the ball of glowing symbols, which had expanded to several times its original size and occasionally shot off stray symbols into the sky. The man in the center...had also expanded. Gleeful, distorted laughter emanated from him.

She seemed to realize something as she read the symbols. Blazing fury once again filled her face.

"My lady?" said a shocked voice behind her. "What are you doing here?"

She spun around and grabbed Drumknott by the collar. "Did Havelock speak to that man? Vhat did he say?"

Drumknott sputtered. "He...asked...the name of the key. Said pro...senthor...no...prosendithorica?"

Margolotta made an incoherent noise and dropped Drumknott, upon which Moist and Adora Belle immediately crashed into both of them.

"_Lord von Lipwig?_" Now Drumknott was angry too. "How can _you_ be here?"

"We-well-there was a...tornado-"

"A _tornado_? In the _safe zone_?"

"No, not in the safe zone-"

"_Why weren't you in the safe zone?_"

"Why wasn't he, indeed!" Adora Belle shrieked. "No reason, of course! Pure idiotic hardheadedness!"

"Lord Vetinari said to save yourself!" Drumknott shouted. "I know he did, I sent the message! It was an _order_!"

"Why aren't _you_ in the safe zone, then?" Moist shot back.

"_I_ don't matter! _You_-I don't know where Lord Vetinari is! So what is Ankh-Morpork supposed to do without _you_?"

"And what, exactly, am _I_ supposed to do with Ankh-Morpork without _you_?"

"This is a rather silly discussion," said Sybil Vimes.

"No," Drumknott moaned. "No, Your Grace, why-"

Sybil's sudden appearance distracted everyone just enough for Margolotta to slip away unnoticed.

* * *

"FIFTEEN MINUTES!" laughed the figure lost among the glowing symbols.

The plaza had filled with his onlookers. The tornadoes had carried them there, picking them up from across the city. Some were dazed, some panicking, and some still shouting about storming the Unseen Library, though somehow nobody did get around to the actual storming.

Sam Vimes had arrived. He and Sybil clung to each other, not speaking.

So had Lord Downey. He wandered about asking if anyone knew where Lady Margolotta was.

"TWELVE MINUTES!"

"I wonder," Vimes muttered into Sybil's shoulder.

"Wonder what, dear?"

"Nobody's seen Vetinari. Everyone seems to think he's abandoned us. Do you think he'd do that? Do you think he'd-run away? Leave us to our fates?"

"That's a story spread by silly lords to cover for their own cowardice, dear."

"Then where is he?"

"NINE MINUTES!"

The ball of glowing symbols towered above the crowd, which instinctively kept clear a wide circle around its base. It drank in yellow tornadoes from the yellow sky. Sometimes, flashes of tentacles seemed to appear among the symbols. Harbinger Everwane's laughter began to mingle with strange moans.

A gasp went up nearest the Cham, which connected the plaza to Unseen University. The crowd turned.

A figure had appeared there, dressed in black, walking with a cane.


	9. Bargains

Lord Vetinari walked toward the ball of glowing symbols. The crowd parted before him. An eerie hush fell.

Those near him could tell that he was speaking, but the closer he passed by them the less sense his words made. They did not seem to be words at all. They seemed to be...spells...

Vetinari arrived at the bottom of the glowing ball. Still speaking, he bent down, detached something-a knife?-from his thigh, and laid it on the ground along with his cane. He stood back up, reached out with his hands, and _grasped_ the symbol in front of him.

Everwane's laughter, from deep within the cocoon of symbols, became higher, more incredulous. "The Patrician is trying to _bluff_ his way through this!" he cried, his voice echoing. "That's _pathetic_!"

The symbol Vetinari was holding began to recede into the center of the ball, lifting him toward it. Because space worked differently inside the ball, the symbols did not occlude Vetinari from the crowd. They could still see his lips moving.

"Cut out this farce!" Everwane laughed. "I know you, Lord Vetinari! You love power-you love control-you love your enemies' fear! There's nothing else inside you! You cannot do what you are pretending to do-you do not have the will-and you wouldn't if you could!"

* * *

(Earlier:

Margolotta stormed into Havelock's Corner of the Library. He was there, of course, checking over several sheets of paper covered in his neat handwriting.

Their eyes met. A number of rather uncharacteristic expressions flashed across his face, coming and going somewhat awkwardly, as the features they appeared on were long unused to displaying anything but blankness. Surprise-disappointment-guilt-fear.

"You are not meant to be here," he said quietly.

"And yet here I am," she shot back. "And not only me! Mr. Drumknott, Lord von Lipwig, Lady Adora Belle, the Duchess-they are all right here, at the Old Monsters' door. And I vager the Duke vill arrive soon enough."

The fear on Havelock's face deepened. "Then I have miscalculated."

"Oh, _so much_." Margolotta had reached the table where he sat, and now she leaned across it, accusing. "You panic me vith a false alarm about my son's health. You send Downey and his flock of mediocre students to drive me off vhen the first distraction fails. All for vhat, I vunder? All for vhat?"

"I merely hoped to ensure your safety," Havelock murmured. "You cannot blame me for that."

"Liar!" Margolotta hit the table with her palm. "I cannot believe that even now you are still lyink to me! You desired the safety of many friends, but you lied only to me! You used force only on me!"

"They had jobs-"

"Be quiet! I know vhat you vere afraid of, Havelock-my knowledge. You vanted to stop me from interferink-from takink your place!"

Havelock blinked once, slowly, then nodded, resigned. "The possibility that you might demand to go instead of me seemed extremely unlikely, but...nevertheless frightened me perhaps beyond reason."

"Vait. _Vait._" Havelock had been provoking Margolotta so prolifically that she'd thought she had run out of room for extra layers of anger, but this was worth a whole new tectonic _plate_ of anger. "_Extremely unlikely?_"

"Then you would have?" he asked, in an oddly uncertain tone that was remarkably ill-suited to his voice.

"I-" she clenched her fists, pressing her knuckles against the table. "You-you intend to close the door from the other side, vhich, because of the current incarnation of the key and Evervane's numerous special innovations, is the only side from vhich it may be closed. You have calculated and memorized the spells vith vhich you shall do so. Deploying them vill cause you pain beyond anythink ve can imagine, for vhich reason you have evacuated the city, because you are not sure you are capable of finishink the spells. Should you fail, you vill die horribly. Should you succeed, you vill be trapped vith the Old Monsters forever, vishing that you could have died horribly instead. And you-how can it not be _obvious_-that I vould do _anythink_-to spare you this-" She had to stop talking at this point, because she was losing the ability to breathe.

"Well," Havelock muttered to the table, having broken eye contact at the end of Margolotta's rant. "In that case, I have no regrets about the actions I took to impede you."

A painful silence descended. There was nothing else to say; they both knew he had won. There was no time left to recalculate the spells to fit her. Only he could go now.

He stared at the sheets of writing in his hand, which he had already committed to memory. She stood over him, glaring, trying to breathe, trying to _think_.

But it was already time. Havelock put the papers down and stood up. "Margolotta-" he said softly, and had the absolute, jaw-dropping nerve to _hug_ her, resting his cheek on the top of her head. She stood stiffly, arms at her sides unmoving. "-It has been a great privilege to know you."

She did not reply. He let go, took his cane, and walked past her, toward the Library entrance. She did not follow him, did not speak, did not even turn around to watch him go, because to do so would have been to give up hope. Instead, she took the seat he had vacated and picked up a book.)

* * *

Everwane's laughter had become a little more hysterical, perhaps a little more forced. "You think you'll achieve some sort of glory this way? You think the rats of Ankh-Morpork will be _grateful_? They'll say you scripted the whole thing, oh, you faked it and fled to the Aurient with the riches of the Palace to live in unrestrained hedonism! Oh, they couldn't care less!"

Vetinari's lips moved without pause. The symbol in his hands grew brighter, began to change shape. From some angles, it looked as though there was smoke coming from between the symbol and his palms. As though his hands were burning.

"Oh, so quickly will Ankh-Morpork forget you!" Everwane shrieked. "A footnote in the interminable list of Patricians-_this sucker imagined himself a hero_! This broken city, this worthless city, which makes mud out of gold-you try to save them, all they'll ever do is laugh! Let them die!"

The symbol in Vetinari's hands was now a single, sharp-pointed line, and it glowed a pure, brilliant white.

"Hell is waiting for you! An eternal nightmare, unimaginably worse than this-but you can still let go-"

Vetinari plunged the white line into his chest.

"NO!" Everwane wailed.

And as the crowd watched, Vetinari pressed his lips together and turned pale, which was like a normal person delivering a bloodcurdling scream; then his face contorted in silence, which was like a normal person going utterly mad; then, finally, he did scream, and it was a long, high scream which sounded less like him than like anything else in the world...

His body disintegrated. The yellow sky fell inward into the ball of glowing symbols, which melted into a single, indistinct cloud. The cloud flashed twice, then vanished. And then there was nothing left of the Old Monsters but the clear space in the plaza where the ball had been, and where Vetinari's cane and knife were still lying, perfectly parallel.


	10. Loyalties

Drumknott was the first to react.

He screamed. He burst out of the crowd, into the clear space, and collapsed over Vetinari's cane.

A beat passed.

Sybil pushed herself steadily but swiftly out of the crowd and approached Drumknott. She knelt and put her hand on his shoulder. He did not move.

Another beat.

Vimes followed Sybil. He did not kneel. He stood helplessly over both of them, mind full of static.

"This is a trick."

That was Moist, half-heartedly resisting as Adora Belle pulled him over to the huddle around the cane. "It must be a trick. This can't be happening. It didn't happen. It can't."

He repeated it like a broken imp as the others slumped silent and unresponsive. "This can't happen. This can't happen. This can't happen." The crowd began to whisper and mumble and mill, as crowds do, but none of them noticed.

Lord Downey appeared. There was a jumpy, worried look about him. He picked up Vetinari's knife, which the others had ignored.

"I didn't know he had one of these," he said to nobody.

He took off the sheath and examined the blade, frowned, put the sheath back on. He began poking and tapping the handle. Some seconds passed, unpleasantly. Finally there was a _click_. He pulled out a tiny rolled piece of paper.

"Should I be permanently separated from my position," he read aloud, "please immediately find Lord Moist von Lipwig and Rufus Drumknott, who are to promptly recover and implement the succession documents. Havelock."

Nobody said anything, except Moist, who was still repeating "this can't happen" at regular intervals. These intervals had lengthened over time, but Downey's words seemed to have no additional effect on them in either direction.

"Ahem," Downey said.

Silence.

"Moist," Downey said. "Drumknott."

Silence.

"I believe that was an order from the Patrician," Downey said.

Silence.

"You do know what an order means, right? Have you lot ever followed an order in your life?"

"Be reasonable, Daniel," Sybil said suddenly.

"Reasonable? Reasonable, indeed! I am trying to ensure that what Havelock wanted is done! I think I am being _quite_ reasonable!"

"Havelock has never understood people nearly as well as he thought he did," Sybil said.

"What-" Downey meant to say _what does that have to do with anything_, but suddenly he noticed, like the proverbial coyote who ran off a cliff several minutes ago but doesn't start to fall until he looks down, that he was far from young, that he had just spent more than three hours chasing and fighting a vampire over a dying, doomed city, and that he had lost a truly extraordinary friend. He swayed and barely managed to sit down on the ground before he fell over. When he'd gotten his breath back some minutes later, he looked around, embarrassed.

Fortunately, nobody was paying him any attention.

He decided he really didn't want to be there anymore and got up, wandering vaguely toward and eventually into the Cham. Which was how he ran into Lady Margolotta hurrying in the opposite direction.

"What-you-_you_..." he started, trying to sound accusatory but landing on exhausted instead.

"You!" she shouted, with all the frenetic energy he lacked. "You, I vas looking for! And the others! I figured it out-Havelock can still be saved!"

* * *

The following day, after Ankh-Morpork had been de-evacuated and everyone had had a chance to recover their strength, Margolotta gathered them in the Oblong Office: Downey, Drumknott, Sam and Sybil Vimes, Moist and Adora Belle, and, because more people were needed and they had volunteered, Carrot, Angua, and Sally.

Margolotta couldn't be entirely sure what had brought the latter three to this gathering. For everyone else in the room, it was fairly obvious what each felt they owed Havelock Vetinari. But those three...well. Sam Vimes said that Carrot volunteered for everything, that Angua wouldn't let Carrot go without her, and that Sally wouldn't let Angua go without _her_. Also that they admired Vetinari as a leader and were grateful for his favorable policies toward immigration from Uberwald. Maybe that was it. It was just a little surprising that so many people who weren't personally close to Havelock would care so much. Unless it wasn't surprising at all.

"Essentially," she explained, "no one person can freely enter and exit the vorld of the Old Monsters alone, but the ten of us can do it together. And ve can do so vithout openink the door that the Old Monsters can go through.

The only difficulty is that ve vill have to find him. That vill take a very lonk time. And to be in that vorld is like livink constantly in the vorst moment of your vorst nightmare. And a veek there passes like forty years. Ve may go mad. I cannot be sure ve vill survive.

The situation is very simple. The only question is: are you villing to go?"

"And that world...he's there now," Drumknott whispered, horror on his face. "And he's been there...for a whole day already..."

"Correct," Margolotta said flatly.

"And he really meant to stay there forever?" Vimes asked in disbelief.

"He vould have...disintegrated...eventually. It vould have taken decades, centuries...but it clearly never occurred to him to vunder if he could escape vith help. Many thinks never occur to him. To be fair, I didn't think of it either until I really looked at the calculations..."

"I never thought he was _like_ this," Downey muttered.

"Then you were stupid, Daniel," Sybil said sharply. "_I_ knew perfectly well."

"Well, I'm going," Moist said, "because, as I've said a thousand times, I don't want to become Patrician yet, and I really, really mean it."

"And the rest of you? It vill not anger me if you back out now. I know I am askink too much."

"Too much?" Downey echoed derisively. "If he wasn't afraid, why should we be?"

So they went.

* * *

Imagine that you are having a nightmare.

Not the kind that seems silly when you wake up, like forgetting your pants, or an unexpected exam. The kind that your ancestors were already having before they had legs to put pants on or hands to write exams with. The kind with blood, and teeth, and pus, and chasing, and crushing, and falling.

Since you are asleep, the nightmare need not make sense. The lack of logical and narrative coherence is part of the horror: it means you cannot think your way out of the chase, as people have become used to doing. You can only run.

You won't be caught, or if caught you will be let go, because otherwise the nightmare would end. But in the moment you never realize this. You never remember anything that might help you. You watch your loved ones die, then rot, then turn into monsters. (They were always monsters. You are in the land of monsters. You keep forgetting that, too, and learning it all over again.) You look down and you yourself are a monster. There is pain, and everything you try to do to soothe the pain makes it worse.

The good news is that you are not alone: your team is bound together by a robust spell constructed by a very clever vampire. The bad news is that you never remember this either. You _feel_ alone.

The good news is that the nightmare will end when you find the person you are looking for. The bad news is that you are _certain_, with every fiber of your monstrous being, that he is long gone. Or else that he hates you and will suck the marrow from your bones and leave you to die. Or else that he will always be just out of reach, wandering wherever you are not, because to be fair, even if you were capable of rational thought, it would still be natural to ask: "this place is so large-how will we ever find him?"

With a lot of time. Years. Decades.

What else is there to say? The horrors you're experiencing are beside the point. You didn't ask how long it would take when you signed up for this mission. You didn't care how much you would suffer. It's not an interesting question how far you are going to save him, because however far it is, you would have gone farther.

You don't recognize him when you do find him, but the clever vampire's spell triggers automatically, and you get out. The End.

It wasn't that bad, really.

It actually was that bad. But anyway, he was worth it.

* * *

They woke up in the same positions in the Oblong Office where they had gone to sleep, except Vetinari, who of course had not departed from the Oblong Office at all, but had now reappeared there, in the Patrician's chair, at the Patrician's desk, because of course that was where they'd brought him.

"My lord!" Drumknott cried joyfully.

Vetinari looked confused, which was probably a first. He swept his eyes around the room, eventually landing them on Margolotta, who was leaning against the wall next to the window. "Margolotta," he said. "What happened? I don't understand."

"Vhat is there to understand? Ve vent in. Ve found you. Ve brought you back here."

"But-" Vetinari seemed unable to comprehend something. "How long did that take?"

"I don't know, vhat day is it today? Oh, you have an imp on your desk now. That's new. Finally listenink to me about somethink, hmm? Your imp says seven Discvorld days."

There was more astonishment on his face, they thought, than his features should have been capable of expressing. He blinked. Blinked again. Blinked _several times_. Looked around the room. "You didn't have to do that," he said softly, and there was a hint of unevenness in his voice.

"Just couldn't stomach answering to an ex-con, sir," Vimes said cheerfully.

"An incredibly _irresponsible_ ex-con," Downey added, "who _flagrantly ignored_ your orders-"

"-See what my alternative was?" Moist moaned, gesturing at the other two. "See what you would've left me to deal with-"

"-And then all the _complaining_ this idiot would've subjected me to-" Adora Belle pointed out.

"It's in my contract," Drumknott said. "Follow you anywhere you need assistance, no matter how dangerous."

"Didn't you notice we were friends, Havelock?" Sybil asked sweetly.

"And the city needs you," Angua said. Carrot and Sally nodded violently.

A corner of Vetinari's mouth twitched. He pressed long fingers to his lips. "I see," he said.

There was a silence. The Oblong Office had seen many silences, but perhaps none quite like this. This silence was warm. It glowed. And it spoke, quietly but in clear, ringing tones, about all the things they meant to say that couldn't fit into mere words. Did the Patrician finally hear it, after failing to notice the last ten thousand times? One could never be sure with him, but it was just possible.

Eventually, he spoke again. "Well, then," he said, allowing a careful but nevertheless quite real smile onto his face. "I am very grateful to be back."


End file.
